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COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 



Two hundred and thirty-five copies of 
this book were printed of which this is 



No.. 



The 
Port O' Calabar 



and 



College Verse 

By Vale Downie 



PUBLISHED BY 

THE EDDY PRESS CORPORATION 

CUMBERLAND, MARYLAND 

SEPTEMBER, 1916 






Copyright 1916 

by 
J. Vale DownJe 



4 



I ^S" 



OCT 21 1915 



©CI.A445264 



Contents 

Page 

The Port O' Calabar 7 

The Poet Li Po 12 

The Old Pike 17 

A Song of the Voyageur 22 

Bells in the Street 23 

The Jongleur 27 

Keats 31 

The Daguerreotype 32 

Halcyon Hills 33 

A Kinder Country 34 

Yule 35 

Some of Our Dreams Come True 37 

September Sun . 38 

Playin' Hook 39 

Dusk and Dark 43 

Doris Deane 44 

The Grapevine Swing 46 

The Passing of Puff-Puff 48 

Elderberry Pie 50 

Woodland Worshippers 56 

September 58 

Trailing Arbutus 59 

On Harvest Hill 60 

An April Song 62 

COLLEGE VERSE 

Graduate Dreams 67 

Lost Opportunities 71 

My Briar 74 

The Tackling Dummy 77 

Get Low, My Son, Get Low 79 

The Bon Fire 84 



The Port O' 
Calabar 



SOME account of certain 
concluding incidents in 
the notorious career of 
Captain Bartholomew Roberts 
and his Full Evil Ship, the 
Flying Dragon, lately destroy- 
ed by His Majesty's Frigate, 
SWALLOW, off the Gold 
Coast, A.D. 1720. 



The Port o' Calabar 

WE were happy and contented in the Port 
o' Calabar 
And as peaceful as a sailor crew could be, 
For our hearts were turned from turmoil and our 
hands were turned from war 
And we put aside the trade o' piracy. 
We had kegs of English silver and bags of golden 
"joes" 
With shining red doubloons from sunny Spain ; 
We'd chests o' plate and rubies and we'd rings on all 
our toes 
At Calabar, beyond the Spanish Main. 

II 

By the Bay of Todos Santos there were forty 
Spanish sail. 
With a ship of fifty guns that carried gold. 
We cut him out and raked him, as he answered to 
our hail. 
And we found ten thousand moidores in his hold. 
The Little York, of Norfolk, and the Love, of 
Liverpool, 
We sank upon the Carolina Post; 



4t 

THE PORT O' CALABAR 



But a boat's crew of them got away to rouse our 
en'mies cruel, 
So we started for the Gold and Ivory Coast. 

Ill 

We took a Bristol brigantine upon her homeward 
course 
From Madeira, with a hundred tuns of wine ; 
And we got enough good liquor from this 
providential source 
To suit our Captain's generous design. 
His orders were explicit and he swore by all that's 
true 
We'd drink until we drove the ship a-wreck; 
And he swore he'd pistol any mut'nous member of 
the crew 
That took a sober step upon the deck. 

IV 

And so we came across the seas, propelled by 
fav'ring gales; 
The helmsman tied the tiller hard and fast ; 
And the crew gave up a-tryin' to manipulate the sails ; 

And the Captain went asleep beside the mast. 
A week the Dragon drifted in a drunk, delirious 
dream. 
With many a tangled sheet and broken spar, 
And when the hot sun woke us up we were grounded 
in the stream. 
Beside the golden sands of Calabar. 



THE PORT O' CALABAR 



What guardian angel guided us unto that pleasant spot? 

We didn't know and no one cared to ask; 
Bur we thanked the saints and devils for the joys of 
our lot 
And the Captain swore, while sitting on a cask 
Of Kingston rum, with joyous tears a-tricklin' down 
his face. 
That never would we take the sea again; 
But peacefully beneath the palms that decked that 
pleasant place 
As honest men we'd evermore remain. 

VI 

With fighting and with feasting and with gambling 
in the shades 
We lingered in that tropic paradise, 
And soon we had a score of dusky Senegambian maids 

To shield us, while we slept, from heat and flies. 
There also was our Chaplain, which we captured on 
the Coast, 
To mix the punch we tippled and to pray; 
Which was very useful to a man when giving up the 
ghost. 
Likewise, when dead, to take the same away. 

VII 
Alas, all human happiness come to an ending must! 
We never thought to suffer want again ; 



THE PORT O' CALABAR 



But, while we'd wine in plenty, we found, to our 
disgust. 
Of biscuit Scarce a chestful did remain. 
The Chaplain told the Captain and they sobered up 
the crew 
To get the Flying Dragon off the sand ; 
And, at last, we freed the vessel, which was des'prate 
hard to do, 
And sadly left behind that pleasant strand. 

VIII 

We sailed with famished frenzy across the barren seas 

For seven days before we saw a prize. 
With cheers we shook the black flag from our mast- 
head to the breeze 
And hearkened for their panic stricken cries. 
Curst be the treacherous perfidy to which our King 
resorts. 
With cruel tricks to slaughter and to maim! — 
That merchantman hauled up the screens of thirty 
frowning ports 
And met us with a deadly sheet of flame. 

IX 

It was the Swallow, man-of-war, disguised to hunt us 
down, 
With sixty hidden portholes in her sides. 
Her decks a-swarm with cutthroats, all thirsty for 
renown 
And sworn to give our bones unto the tides. 



10 



THE PORT O' CALABAR 



'T was then our gallant Captain stood boldly by his 
ship 
And swore we'd yet escape the raging foe. 
He fought with curses in his mouth and a sneer upon 
his lip 
Until a bursting round shot brought him low. 

X 

Oh, sad it was to see him roll amid the reek and blood 

And no more heart to work the guns had we ; 
So brave before and debonair upon the deck he stood, 

His crimson damask coat down to his knee 
And o'er his breast a jeweled belt, in which his 
pistols hung; 

We knelt beside, his last commands to know. 
Then boldly to the ocean's care that gallant form 
we flung 

And turned to meet the boarders of the foe. 

XI 

In the keep of Cape Coast Castle one day is like the rest ; 

But soon we'll see the end of all our pains. 
They'll try us all for piracy and, after we've confest. 

Above the harbor bar we'll clank our chains. 
But we were happy once, though 't was just a little 
while. 

And oftentimes my thoughts will fly afar, 
And I seem to see the sunny harbour waitin' with a 
smile 

And the pleasant little Port o' Calabar. 



11 



The Poet Li Po 

What matter if the snow 
Blot out the garden? She shall still recline 
Upon the scented balustrade and glow 
With spring that thrills her warm blood 
into wine. _li pQ 



THE tinkle of gongs in the palace of T'ang 
Dies on the soft night air 
And the Lady Moon, pausing above the pool, 

Findeth a rival there. 
Lute-girls hid in the shadowy grove 

Are lilting their lullabies. 
And their plectrums plash on the golden chords 

Like shadows on day-tired eyes. 
So tender and faint is their purling plaint 

'Tis only the heart that hears; 
And the dusk that enshroudeth the bamboo walks 

Is the dusk of a thousand years. 
Yet gaily the festooned lanterns glow 

And it seemeth a goodly thing 
To wander awhile with the poet Li Po 

In the gardens of T'eng-hsiang T'ing. 

II 

There was never a king like the Emperor Ming, 
Who was lord in the coasts of Cathay, 



12 



THE POET LI PO 



Nor a city of man like the gay Ch'ang-an, 

The seat of imperial sway ; — 
With its girdle unbroken of triplicate walls, 

Surmounted by glittering towers, 
And its palaces mirrored in placid canals 

Amid wonderful gardens of flowers. 
There was never a girl like the lovely Tai Chen, 

Who held in her lily-white hand 
The soul of a monarch of millions of men 

And all her dear lips might demand. 
Mere words could not tell of her beauty's rich glow; 

And thus came the Emperor Ming 
To summon the skill of the poet, Li Po, 

In the gardens of T'eng-hsiang-T'ing. 

Ill 

Apart from the palace where willow trees 

Bent over a blue lagoon. 
In her bower the lady reclined at ease 

Luting a low love-tune. 
A tangled splendour of peonies, spread 

At the verge of the tranquil tide, 
(Reflected in flame from the lake's blue bed). 

With the fire of the sun-set vied. 
The scent of magnolia and jasmine bloom, 

Stole up to her balustrade. 
As she pouted and peered in the purple gloom. 

And her lover his coming delayed. 
With a rustle of silk and with step full slow, 

At last came the love-mad Ming, 



13 



THE POET LI PO 



Bringing beside him the poet, Li Po, 
In the Gardens of T'eng-hsiang-T'ing. 

IV 
*'Drear was the Garden of T'eng-hsiang-T'ing 

As the desert of bleak Kansuh; 
And my heart was so heavy I could not sing, 

Ere summer came in with you; 
For how could I know that the rose was red 

'Till I looked on your pouting lips, 
Or fathom the blue of the skies o'erhead 

'Till it suffered your eyes' eclipse? 
But now, though Winter shall have its will 

Of flower and leaf and lake. 
The fairest blossom shall bloom here still, 

In spite of the storms that break ; 
And, though I may wander in exiled woe, 

Sweet odours shall round me cling." — 
Such were the words of the poet, Li Po, 

In the Gardens of T'eng-hsiang-T'ing. 

V 
The lady laughed, for she had no fear. 

And fluttered her jewelled fan; 
But the poet is ever a faithful seer 

Whose chart is the heart of man ; 
And he knew that a butterfly, born with the day, 

Afloat on the airs of dawn. 
Should lie in the dust of the trampled way 

Ere the dew was dried from the lawn. 



14 



4^ . 

THE POET LI PO 



Ah, poor butterfly! For the storm swept by 

And the snows came all too soon; 
A crownless exile in far Ssuch'uan 

Wept for the blue lagoon, 
For the scented bowers of the long ago 

And the flirt of the butterfly's wing, 
That was duly set down by the poet, Li Po, 

In the Gardens of T'eng-hsiang-T'ing. 

VI 

Speedily past was the red regime 

Of the Tibetan, An Lu-Shan, 
And his rebel legions were driven a-far, 

To the borders of Turkestan. 
Once more, 'mid Chang-an's gardens bright. 

The great Ming Huang held sway 
And half the world, for the king's delight, 

Made joyous holiday. 
A thousand flower-faced maidens dwelt 

In his palace halls, the while; 
But never a one that his heart might melt 

Or kindle the ancient smile. 
For the scent of a blossom of long ago 

And the breath of an olden spring 
Sighed like a song of the poet Li Po 

Through the gardens of T'eng-hsiang T'ing. 

VII 

Forgot in the flood of a thousand years 
Is the reign of the great Ming Huang ; 



15 



THE POET LI PO 



A name that none but the savant hears 

Remains of the race of T'ang. — 
But the tinkling bells still charm the air 

And festooned lanterns gleam 
'Mid the porticos of a palace fair 

In a fabulous City of Dream. 
Lute-girls hidden among the trees 

Chant ever a low love tune 
And for ever and ever a flower-sweet breeze 

Comes over the blue lagoon. 
There bathed in the moonlight's softest glow 

Three shades go wandering: — 
T'ai Chen, Ming Huang and the poet Li Po, 

In the Gardens of T'eng-hsiang-T'ing. 



16 



The Old Pike 



THE old pike road that runs from Cumberland 
to Wheeling 
Is fallen and forgotten, these fifty years and 
more; 
But tonight the golden mxoonlight down the mountains 
stealing 
Invests it with the glamour of the golden days of 
yore. 
The moonlight and the shadows and the mists above 
the meadows 
Suggest departed grandeur that in other times it 
knew; 
I can hear the harness jingle and it sets the heart 
a-tingle 
And a-dreaming of a gallant day when coaches 
clattered through. 
The music of the driver's horn on Laurel Ridge is 
pealing 
And on down to Uniontown they rumble and they 
roar, 
On the Old Pike Road from Cumberland to 
Wheeling 
Where the great Good Intent Line ran, in "forty- 
four." 



17 



THE OLD PIKE 



♦ 

II 
They come. — Tonight I marvel not, O shade of 
Nemacolin, 
That many a grim and ghostly shape should haunt 
thine ancient path; 
Grotesque and painted woodland braves, of aspect 
cold and sullen, 
Lurk in the shadowy defiles with arrows dipt in 
wrath. 
The alien ax is flashing; great trees to earth are 
crashing 
And regiments of soldiers march on to Fort 
Du Quesne. 
Through rivers and morasses, ravines and fearsome 
passes. 
They drag their lumbering cannon with infinitude 
of pain. 
They go to fall amid the glades like scarlet leaves in 
autumn, 
To sanctify a hundred springs with color rich and 
rare, 
Leaving their bones to bleach the banks of many a 
dusky bottom ; — 
Winning, at last, a goodly keep beside La Belle 
Riviere. 

Ill 
They come. — The hardy trader with his pack-train 
heavy laden ; 
The drover with his straggling flock; the settler and 
the priest ; 



18 



THE OLD PIKE 

And many a brave, strong-shouldered youth and 
comely sun-burnt maiden 
Trudge by the wains without regret for Edens in 
the East. 
Brigades of continentals in their ragged regimentals 
Are marching to the beating of a damp, dead 
drum. 
Their throats are parched and dusty and their 
haversacks are musty 
And their boots are oozing water from the rivers 
they have swum. 
Westward — westward ever, in the track of dying 
daylight, 
A gaunt and ghostly cavalcade v/ith hungry, 
wistful eyes, 
Weary of foot, but stout of heart, moves onward in 
the pale light. 
Discerning in each sunset cloud the sheen of 
paradise. 

IV 
They come ; — the speeding coaches with their six- 
horse teams careering, 
Their great hoofs striking fire-flakes from the hard 
macadam floor. 
**Red" Bunting on the driver's seat, no rival chariot 
fearing, 
Goes thund'ring down from Winding Ridge to the 
"Shades of Death" once more. 
Again the old stone taverns with chimneys deep as 
caverns 



19 



THE OLD PIKE 



Await the way-worn traveller v/ith warmth and 
gracious cheer; 
Their windows welcome gleaming as the horses pull 
up steaming, 
On frosty winter evenings, when the Christmas 
time is near. 
At Endsley's and the Six Mile House and fifty more 
beside them 
A long, low-ceilinged dining room as for a feast is 
spread, 
Where all that come v>^ith cause give thanks for v/hat 
their gods provide them 
Of ancient hospitality, which in this land is dead. 



The Old Pike Road — alas, its halcyon days are over. 
A few rust-eaten monuments still mark the weary 
miles ; 
But gone are the speeding coaches, the wagoner and 
drover ; — 
'Tis a dream road through a land of dream, that in 
its dreaming smiles. 
Yet in this desolation a form of fascination, 

A shadow of the gripping charm of the olden days 
remains, — 
A substance, or a seeming, that sets one wishing, 
dreaming 
Of a land of nobler mountains and of broader, 
brighter plains. 



20 



THE OLD PIKE 



It draws away across the hills, direct and void of 
turning, 
Where pine trees mask the setting moon on Savage 
Mountain crest; 
And something in the stretching pike sets all the soul 
a-buming ; — 
A wizard breeze is whispering, '^Away into the 
Westr' 



21 



T 



A Song of the 
Voyage ur 

HE gourmand dreams of his dainties, 

The lover dreams of his fair; 

But my rare dream is of thee, fair stream, 
Tis of thee, ma Belle Riviere! 
Tis of thee, ma Belle Riviere! 



The lover sings of his mistress 

And the song hath a plaintive air; 

*Tis a low chanson of her star-like eyes 
And shadowy, perfumed hair; 

But a sweeter tune do thy wavelets croon 
Unto me, ma Belle Riviere. 

Then drink who will to his mistress 

And sing to his lady fair; — 
Sing I one strain, one glass I drain. 

*Tis to thee, ma Belle Riviere! 

'Tis to thee, ma Belle Riviere! 



22 



The Bells in the 
Street 

ALL down the street 
Go sleighriders fleet; 
.Their bells jingle, jingle 
So gaily and sweet, 
It makes the blood tingle 
And makes the heart beat; — 
At Christmas so joyous 
Sound the bells in the street. 

With laughter and singing 
The fleeting cutters 
Crowd to the gutters 
The slow-going sled 
Of the home-plodding farmer. 
Who sadly mutters, 
Yet smiles as he mutters 
And shakes his head; 
Smiles as he utters 
A name that is dear 
From a long vanished year 
That is faded and fled. 

'Tis the time of glad hearts 
And the old town tonight 



23 



THE BELLS IN THE STREET 

Is mad with delight. 
Bright are the faces, 
Bright the shop windows 
Encrusted with white 
And glittering bright, 
Where the frost traces 
Palm trees, galleons 
From the Islands of Indus, 
Castles, palaces. 
Golden chalices 
Crusted with gems 
And sparkling a-light. 

The great sleds race 

At a rollicking pace; 

The driver with muffler 

That swallows his face 

Shouts to his six 

Great steeds in turn 

And cracks his whip. 

As the great hoofs spurn 

The crusted snow, 

There's a resonant bang 

And a scampering clang 

Of a thousand bells 

As they go. 

Young hearts beat 

In time to the ringing; 

And the song they are singing 

Is passing sweet! 



24 



THE BELLS IN THE STREET 



Away o'er the hills 

That are white in the night 

The bells tinkle-tinkle 

All gaily and light; 

And the little stars twinkle 

And burn and twinkle, 

Like waxen tapers, 

All sweet perfumed. 

That hang in the fir-trees 

Unconsumed. 

And Love burns bright 

In the Yule Clog's glow. 

As the bells come tinkling 

Softly and low, 

Faintly and clear, 

As the bugles of Elfland 

That fairy-men blow 

'Twixt the stars and the snow, 

At the night of the year. 

So, softly and sweet. 

In old Memorie Street. 

With a far-away tinkle 

The echoes repeat; 

And the night is thrilled 

And the air is filled 

With the fragrance of incense 

Of olden dreams 

Of the days of delight; 

And an old song seems 



25 



THE BELLS IN THE STREET 

To be sung in the night 
To the music of bells. 
Then hearts will beat 
At the sound of that song 
So joyous and sweet; 
And a dream of a Singer 
And the chimes of the bells 
In Old Memorie Street. 



26 



The Jongleur 

He Taketh Comfort of His Lute 



THERE is no lack, in Lover's Land, 
Of good white bread and rich, red wine 
If one but have, at his command, 

The coin of the realm, a song. 
Heigh-ho, and if this heart of mine 
Is thirsty for that drink divine 

And hung'reth sore and long, 
And if that bourne is far away 
And winds are cold and skies are gray, 
Yet will I not repine; 

And though I suffer grievous wrong 
And give my rondels gay and sweet 
For cheerless drink and little meat, 

Still will I shift to sing my song 
And lilt my roundelay 
As blithely for each churlish cheat 
As for my lady in her seat ; — 
Nor baser coin will pay. 
Goodsooth, I'm not so badly paid; 

For rare's the cobbler will refuse 

To patch and sole my sorry shoes 
For a song in praise of his own trade. 
The inn-lord serves me of his best 

And takes his pay from such as throng 

His tap-room to applaud my song 



27 



THE JONGLEUR 



And loudly laugh at a sorry jest, 
Whiles that they drink his ale with zest. 
Oft, at the corners of the street, 

I stop in little, huddled towns. 
Where beggars, waifs, and wastrels meet 

And many low and loutish lowns 
And crippled wights who creep thereby 
(Far hungrier, forsooth, than I), 
To hear my ballads sweet. 
They love the wondrous tales I bring 

From many a far off noblesse court, 

Of war and games of knightly sport 
And the grandeur of the King. — 
What, though of silver in my cap 
But scant reward shall fall? Mayhap 
Tomorrow I shall trend my way 

Into some courtly castle hall. 
Where gifts of gold and jewels may 

Unto my guerdon fall. 

II 

There is no dearth in Love's Domain 

Of those wee blooms that are his pride ; 
And, when shall cease the chilling rain, 

They'll blink and shine on every side, 
Carpeting all the meadowland 
And laughing, cheek to cheek, there stand, 

A countless company. 
Then, ling'ring by the pleasant ways, 
And conning o'er my stock of lays 

These shall my mentors be. 



W8 



^ 

THE JONGLEUR 



For every star-like, beaming face 
A little sonnet I shall make ; 
And one shall make my master shake 

His sides with laughter, and grimace; 

And one shall soften every heart 
And fill it full of wistful dreams ; 

And one shall flow and babbling go, 
Like cooling, joyous streams; 

And one shall fire the warrior's ire 

To mount and ride through lands afar 
And there to do some desperate war 

And win his brave desire ; 

And one my lady's sigh shall wake 
And she shall weep full piteously ; 

And one shall be for His sweet sake. 

Whom paynim soldiery did take 
And hanged upon the tree. 

What, though the path unending seems. 

That trendeth to that land of dreams, 
Where joyous maidens dance 
In every flowery mead ; perchance 

Not every minstrel, lute in hand, 
Who fareth forth upon the quest 
At his own singing soul's behest, 

Shall come at once to Lover's Land. 

HI 
There is no lane in Lover's Land 

But to the turning comes at last, 
And Cometh where a castle fair 

Stands guard upon the Past. 



29 



— — — ^ 

THE JONGLEUR 



The warder waits above its gates ; 

But, hearing one low song of mine, 

He'll wait nor name, nor countersign, 
But wide the portals cast. 
Then my sweet lady shall arise 
And cry, with gladness in her eyes 

And in her tone, "It is his song, — 
The birds have sung it oft to me 
And leaves have lisped it am'rously 

And April airs that dance along 
Have breathed it softly, tim'rously." 
Fain am I for that pleasant keep, 
Where I shall drink a flagon deep 
Of pleasure and shall rest and dream. 

Sunned in my lady's smile, 

Telling one old tale, the while, 
And singing of but one old theme. 
Alack, I yet have far to go 

And I have many songs to sing, 

Of love and many a diff 'rent thing, 
Ere I that peace shall know. 
Fain am I for the journey's end 
And oft' my heart is like to rend. 

But that in dreams I see, 
Faint tinged with blue and gold, afar, 

A princely, towered castle stand, 

A house of Hospitality 
That gleams beneath my guiding star 

In Lover's Land. 



30 



Keats 

I HAVE but lately come into my Keats, 
As one from whom his due inheritance 
Has been withheld, by malice or mischance, 
At last is suffered, trembling, to his sweets. 
Through those glad gates a different sun glow greets 
And welcomes to my gold realms of romance. 
These are the meadows for the mystic dance. 
Edged round with leafy shade of Pan's retreats. 
Long have I sought, in dreams, that summer shore 

Which poets rhyme and sing, sweet Arcady, 
And wished a galleon that might bear me o'er 

The eternal trammels of the mortal sea. — 
Now shall I vainly seek and sigh no more. 
But find my Arcady, rare Keats, in thee. 



31 



The Daguerreotype 

A FRAGRANT breath was gathered in a mist, 
Long years ago, upon this glamoured glass, 
■ That a frail flower might bloom, while 
ages pass, 
In shadows silver-grey and amethyst. 
Shoulders of old ivory a-glist. 

Above the checkered fabric of her gown. 
And, back of them, her dusky hair hangs down, 
Combed smooth as silk and gathered in a twist. 
Her eyes look out beneath a candid brow. 

And whether brown or blue I vainly guess — 
So little dare my darkling glass allow; 

But I am sure of their kind loveliness. 
If Eighteen-forty-nine were only now 

I wonder what those curved lips might confess. 



32 



The Halcyon Hills 
¥ 

THE Halcyon Hills that ring about 
The Lost Land of my better youth, 
They mark the boundaries of truth 
Between the lands of Dream and Doubt. 

All green against the tender skies 

Their broad, protecting shoulders loom 
And there are flowers that star-like bloom, 

Where croon sweet streams their lullabies. 

In that fair vale, beyond their brim. 
Dwells many an olden friend of mine. 
I gaze and gaze, but they give no sign 

And my tired eyes are growing dim. 



33 



The Kinder Country 



T 



IS sweet to think, through days in sorrow 
spent, 
There is a kinder country of content. 



Where never burns the sun with blinding heat 
And never falls the storm with cruel beat. 

There is no longing for a laggard dawn; 
There is no moaning for the light withdrawn ; 

No mad remorse and no forebodings dire, 
Nor hope deferred, with fierce, consuming fire; 

No mists of pain and doubt, nor worriment; 
No voice of discord nor of cold dissent. 

And we, who thither fare, with weary feet, 
A narrow way, shall wish no wider street. 

And that low threshold we shall rest upon 
Shall not too humble seem to us, anon. 

More than he hath shall none therein require, 
Nor one sit down with less than his desire, 

But, in a dwelling rare and different. 
Take up his long abode and be content. 



34 



Yule 

YE Chrystmasse Tyde ben come once more; 
Ffull great ffires uppe ye chimney roare 
And on each bourde ben plentyse Store 
Of festal Cheere, 
Of Capons, Puddynges, Heade of Boare 
And winter Beer. 

Of Rabbyt pies and roasted calff 
We've more than wee can eat, ye half. 
And all ye Wine that wee can quaff, 

With somethyng o'er; 
We've laughen as moche as wee can laugh, — 

What want wee more? 

Ye stretchyng Moor ben whyte with Snowe 
And Sharpe ye Northern Wynde dois blowe; 
Butt, while our Yule Clogis ruddie Glowe 

Dois glimmer bright, 
Well warmed beneath ye Mistletoe 

We'll feast, thys Nighte. 

Long lyve yon Abbott of Misrewle, 
Toe gladden men in tyme of Yule. 
Godde send us aye thys merrie Fule 

Toe hold hys Courte, 
And spyce ye Wyne that wetts eche gule 

Wyth Songe and sportt. 



35 



YULE 



Tomorrowe Morn, on Chrystmasse Daye, 
Untoe ye Kirk we'll take our Way, 
Wyth boughs of Laurel! and of Baye 

And Holly trees; 
There toe ye Saviour wee will praye, 

Upon our Knees. — 

Godde give ye victory toe our Kyng; 
Godde kepe us fro eche Hurtfull thing, 
Soe may wee still Thy praises sing, 

Upon thys Earth, 
When Chrystmasse bells again sail ring 

Ye Saviour's Birth. 



36 



Some of Our Dreams 
Come True 

SOME of our dreams come true, dear, 
And there's no gainsaying that 
Though it's only a pipe in front o' the fire, 
Or a gown and a picture hat. 
'Tis certain, much that we want the most 

And fix in our fondest view 
We somehow miss, but I hold to this, 
That some of our dreams come true. 

Some that we never dreamed at all 

And some that were despair, 
And many a darling wish let fall 

From lips that moved in prayer; 
Yes, some of the dreams we've dared to dream 

Escaped, a priceless few. 
From the wrecks and fears of the passing years, 

And did, at the last, come true. 

Out of a weary day, dear. 

We saved, at least, an hour. 
Out of a summer, sadly lost. 

We rescued one rare flower. 
And both were better than you or I 

In our fairest visions knew. 
The Blossom's scent, and the Hour's content. 

Which did, in the end, come true. 



37 



September Sun 

ORARE September Sun! 
O, days so nearly done! 
The Autumn gold 
Is fading from the hill; 
The meadowlands are chill; 
The winds are cold. 

This gleam that greets the eyes, 
This glow of fields and skies, 

Which we behold, 
'T is Summer's last good-byes 
Smiled thus, in tender wise; 

The tale is told. 

O, days of ling'ring bloom. 
Of strolling in the gloom. 

Hand locked in hand! 
The wind that sighing swells 
Blows freighted with farewells 

In Lover's Land. 



38 



Playin' Hook from 
School 

SOMETIMES I think of David Dare, 
My boyhood's bosom friend, 
A Hkely lad with yellow hair 
That mostly stood on end, — 
A bright, up-standing, fearless youth, 

As honest as the day, 
With eyes of innocence and truth 

And modest, manly way. 
For many a trait I loved the lad ; 

But most affection's fuel 
Was the common passion that we had 
For playin' hook from school. 

An hundred pleasant dreams are mine 

Of days in the tranquil past. 
Sweet time of song and summer shine, 

With not a cloud o'er-cast. 
I suppose we count those pleasures great 

For which we greatly pay. 
And witching wands are the withes that wait 

On a stolen holiday; 
For the best of all those mem'ries rare 

That in my sad heart rule 



39 



PLAYIN' HOOK FROM SCHOOL 

Are some of days when* David Dare 
And I played hook from school. 

Fair weather found us fishing 

Below the paper mill, 
The spray about us swishing 

O'er boulders wet and chill. 
Sometimes we went in swimming, from 

The bank above the Bend ; 
And once, I mind, I took a cramp 

That nearly caused my end. 
'T was David Dare who, with a plank, 

Came boldly o'er the pool; 
Else this had been my final prank 

And truancy from school. 

The first seductive April days 

Proved always to be fraught 
With glamour that, in many ways, 

Brought discipline to naught. 
The vicious germ of indolence 

Our whole school would infect 
And then the master would commence 

To flay without respect. 
But David Dare and I, beset 

By devils keen and cruel. 
Especial wollopings would get 

For play in' hook from school. 

The memory of bygone pain 
In youth soon fades away. 



40 



PLAYIN' HOOK FROM SCHOOL 

Alas, the tempter soon again 

Would lead our feet astray. 
About the time the earliest blooms 

On the arbutus vines 
Were sending up their sweet perfumes 

Among the wintered pines, 
We'd bear peace off'rings, sweet of smell, 

The Master's wrath to cool ; 
He'd thank us both then thrash us well 

For play in' hook from school. 

I missed a lot I should have got 

And learned, in after days, 
The wisdom of the man who sought 

To mend our careless ways. 
I've seen old comrades shooting by 

To fortune and to fame; — 
God knows there's little chance that I 

Will set the world aflame. 
Oft' when ambition fiercely burned 

I've called myself a fool 
And longed for what I might have learned 

While playin' hook from school. 

The wiseacres foresaw for Dave 

A future dark and dire; 
Opined no human power could save 

Such spirits from the fire ; 
But all those fears were swept away. 

With much that we had planned, 



41 



PLAYIN' HOOK FROM SCHOOL 

One dark and cold mid^winter day 

By Death's untimely hand. 
I mind the Master's face, all white 

And drawn with anguish cruel, 
When I packed up Davy's books one night, 

And took them home from school. 

I've seen a score of weary years, 

With sorrow toiling late. 
In this sad school of wider spheres 

Whose Master grim is Fate. 
The lessons aye seem long drawn out, 

The sums more hard to do; 
The mind is often dark with doubt 

And torn with anguish new. 
When the load is extra hard to bear 

And Fate uncommon cruel, 
I wish I were with David Dare 

A-playin' hook from school. 



42 



Dusk and Dark 

THE twilight, the rose light, 
Comes creeping from the east ; — 
Stable doors are shutting, 
The milking song hath ceased. 
'Tis time for candle-lighting 

In cottage and in hall. 
The twilight, the rose light. 
Is falling over all. 

The twilight, the gray light, 

Enfoldeth earth and sky. 
The gold has melted from the hill; 

Rooks are beating by. 
Glow worms light the willow copse 

And haunt the rushy holm ; — 
Hearth light and love light 

Are sweetest at the gloam. 

An old moon, a cold moon, 

Is cradled on the hill; 
Above the marsh and meadow land 

The mists are white and chill. 
The pleasures and the pain of day, 

The toil and strife are gone. 
Through dark night, through mirk night, 

God keep you till the dawn. 



43 



Doris Deane 

LITTLE blue-eyed Doris Deane 
Oft' comes back to me, 
^Greets me in some rustic scene 
Of old memory ; — 
Meets me in some olden May-time, 

Full of golden glee, 
When all day time was our play time 
And the world was free. 

Underneath the lilac tree, 

Fragrant in the June, 
There she used to sit with me, 

List'ning to the tune 
Of bumblebees with motley coats ; 

Faint, from far away, 
Came the tinkling sheep bell notes. 

Through the drowsy day. 

There it was I kissed her first. 

On her laughing lips; 
Bees in blossoms stayed their thirst. 

Watched from petal tips. 
And her eyes had caught the blue 

Of summer skies serene ; 
And her lips were honey-dew 

Sweet, my Doris Deane. 



44 



DORIS DEANE 



I would sell this weary world, 

With all it holds for me, 
Three times o'er and gladly, for 

The world that used to be; — 
The whip-poor-will at even-fall, 

Bare feet in dewy green. 
The old home flowers, the poplars tall 

And you, sweet Doris Deane. 



\ 



45 



The Grapevine Swing 

IF I should take the old path 
Across the hills today 
I wonder if I'd find the spring, 
Where we used to play; 
I wonder if I'd find the swing, 

The grapevine swing that twined 
The old tree, Uke a memory 
That would not be resigned. 



The faces looking up from out 

The water cool and clear, 
Would one be mine and one be yours 

So rare-sweet and near? 
And would your curls hang to the glass, 

Whence shone your wide eyes, 
Like the bits of blue fallen through 

The trees from summer skies? 

If I could take the old path 

Across the hills today 
And have your little hand in mine 

To cheer me on my way. 
Then surely would we find the swing 

That twined the maple tree 
And laugh once more as we did of yore 

And be as full of glee. 



46 



-^ 



THE GRAPEVINE SWING 

If I could have your hand in mine 

We'd find the old path still, 
Though not a mark remained to show 

Its course across the hill. 
But the tree is now a gnarled stump ! 

Lashed by the winter wind 
An old vine swings, like a dream that clings 

When all else is resigned. 



47 



The Passing of Puff-Puff 



O 



Sister*s Toy Balloon 

¥ 

NE time I went to see a show. 
I saw a bear and a buffamalo. 



And lots of Indians rode around 

And yelled and fell dov/n on the ground. 

But best of all, that afternoon, 
I got a pretty toy balloon. 

My toy balloon was big and round 
And floated high above the ground. 

It was all shiny, bright and blue 
And had a cane for a handle, too. 

It might have floated out of sight ; 
But I tell you I held it tight. 

I never had a balloon before 
And so I loved it more and more. 

There never was a thing so gay 
As my balloon I got that day. 



48 



THE PASSING OF PUFF-PUFF 

My brother saw my toy balloon 
And took it from me pretty soon. 

He said it wasn't big enough. 

I said, *'You give me back Puff-Puff!" 

He soon unwound the little string 
And took apart the pretty thing. 

He said, "It aint no use to fret," 
And held it over the gas-light jet. 

My nice balloon began to fill 

With gas and swelled up bigger still. 

I cried, but Budzie wouldn't stop 
And next there came a great big POP! 

And then I cried with might and main; 
He laughed and gave me back the cane. 

I looked all on the floor and round; 
But my balloon I never found. 

I only found a piece of gum, 

Which you could stretch upon your thumb. 



49 



Elderberry Pie 



WHEN I was but a little boy I used to count 
each day 
From Christmas 'till the long vacation 

came along in May. 
'T was then my father would opine that, for a little 

space, 
'T would do me good to rusticate, out on the Old 

Home Place; 
And while my mother and himself were loath to have 

me leave, 
They knew my failure to appear would make the Old 

Folks grieve. 
My telescope valise was packed, my ticket bought 

and all 
And then my mother and myself to weeping straight 

would fall. — 

But I always drew some comfort, 'mid these 

partings and good byes. 
From a hopeful dream of Grandma's cream 

with elderberry pies. 

II 

The first few days away from home seemed sort of 

queer to me. 
With no one, really, round the place, but Shep for 

company ; 



50 



ELDERBERRY PIE 



Although he was a rare good dog and a famous friend 

of mine, 
I thought a little boy or girl to play with would be 

fine. 
For all the people in the world seemed busy, night 

and day, 
And not a one had time to stop an hour or so and 

play. 
Grandfather and the Hired Man were very, very 

"throng," 
Ploughing a stumpy hillside, and I couldn't come 

along. — 

The ''girl" was getting dinner and the dinner 

gathering flies. 
While Grandma — she was busily engaged in 

making pies. 

Ill 

I wasn't lonesome in daylight, for I had so much to do 

About the farm ; and the grass v/as green and the skies 
were bright and blue. 

But, when the summer dusk drew on and all the world 
was still, 

Across the hollow, in the woods, would sing the whip- 
poor-will. 

I crept to bed at dark and still that swinging, solemn 
tune 

Came faintly through the quiet night, from under- 
neath the moon. 



51 



ELDERBERRY PIE 

Then Grandma with her caftdle came to kiss me and 
was gone 

And still that eerie whip-poor-will kept singing, sing- 
ing on. — 

I resolutely snuggled down and tightly shut my 

eyes 
And said my prayer and thought of rare big 

elderberry pies. 

IV 

'T is no part of my purpose to disparage other brands 
Of pastry that are fashioned by loving female hands. 
I'll not detract nor dim the fame of apple pie and 

cheese, — 
Those bulwarks of democracy and dearest liberties. 
There's Huckleberry, — mellow mirth lurks in the very 

name, — 
And Apricot and Custard — cream with froth upon the 

same. 
For Cherry and Raspberry pies the month of June 

we*ll hail 
And cheer our hearts with pumpkin tarts 'gainst 

bleak November's gale. — 

But still for steady diet, Spring and Winter, wet 

and dry, 
I might lose zest for all the rest, not elderberry 

pie. 



52 



^ 

ELDERBERRY PIE 



V 

I used to have some little chores to do up, every day, 
Like fetching water from the spring a quarter mile 

away 
And cutting wood and hunting eggs and driving home 

the cows, 
With Shep, who barked about their heels whene'er 

they stopped to browse. 
Sometimes I used to shirk those tasks, which was a 

grievous fault, 
And Grandpa used to laugh and say I wasn't worth 

my salt. 
But there was one small duty that I always hailed as 

fun, 
When elder bushes purpler grew beneath the August 

sun. — 

Then with a bushel basket gaily to the lanes I'd 

hie 
Therefrom to loot a certain fruit for a certain 

kind of pie. 

VI 
In those glad days I lived on pie for three months in 

the year — 
And now, alas, one cut a week will keep me out of 

gear — 
I ate a piece at every meal with relish ever keen 
And ate some more at three or four odd moments in 

between. 



53 



^ _ . 

ELDERBERRY PIE 



Say half a pie at ten A. M. *and another half at five, 
To bolster up my failing strength 'till supper should 

arrive. 
Still do I see that shaded room in many a sweet day 

dream, 
The snowy cloth, the snowy bowl and the snowy jug 

of cream ; 

And there, behind that monster bowl, in vision 

I descry 
A boy whose face bears many a trace of 

**eldurburry pie." 

VII 

It was a panacea good for every sort of ill 

And a bribe to buy obedience to the grand-maternal 

will ; 
For when, by sorry chances, I stepped on rusty nails 
And bacon-bandaged was my foot, not bated were 

my wails, 
Until that luscious remedy had quickly been applied ; 
Which seems to show my greatest woe was, somehow, 

far inside. 
The burning, grinding anguish which through my 

instep shot. 
The deadly, dreaded lockjaw, were speedily forgot; 

All present pain and future won from me doubt 

nor sigh, — 
Serene I ate a gallant plate of elderberry pie. 



54 



^ 

ELDERBERRY PIE 



VIII 

Oh, that there were some good which we might strive 

to win, as men. 
Enchanting and all compelling as the meed which 

drew us then! 
Oh, that there were some salve as sure to comfort and 

to heal 
When, in these thorny later walks, the cruel barbs we 

feel! 
That sun is not the sun which shone in August o'er 

the lane 
And warmed those dusky berry pods for which my 

soul is fain. 
Grandmother's task is ended. Nor sounds the 

noontide bell 
Above the white summer kitchen, that chime I loved 

so well. 

I wander down the barren years and, in my woe, 

am wise, — 
Lost is the boy and lost his joy in elderberry 

pies! 



55 



The Woodland Worshippers 

FROM churches in the valley comes 
The sound of Sabbath bells ; 
And the golden Sabbath sunshine 
O'er town and country dwells; 
With odours rare the gentle winds 

Flow soothingly and sweet; 
And the little flowers in forest bowers 
Their orisons repeat. 



The God of bounteous summer, 

He looketh down with smiles 
On all the beauteous bended heads 

That crowd His forest aisles. 
In all the woodland cloisters, 

In shadow and in sun. 
With perfumes rare, one little prayer 

Goes up from every one. 

Some, with sighing petals, 

Seem filled with chaste regrets; — 
'T is thus, in modest, downcast mien, 

Appear the violets. 
A dandelion, in the green, 

Lifts up a heart of gold. 
Anemones and sweet heart's ease 

Their faces fair uphold. 



56 



THE WOODLAND WORSHIPPERS 

Far back, in the green shadow 

In her sequestered vale, 
In stoles of green and contrite mien 

Kneeleth the lily pale. 
Still dreams the rocky hillside, 

Where sweet arbutus blooms, 
Of the chalice cup there lifted up, 

O'erfilled with rare perfumes. 

Small buttercups and daisies. 

All bright in green and gold, 
By meadow brooks and pasture nooks 

Their lips in pray'r unfold; 
While grave Jack-in-the-pulpit 

Ascends his vestry stair. 
And Heather-bell, o'er field and fell, 

Ringeth the call to prayer. 



57 



September 
1^ 



THE nights are cool and clear, 
The days are warm and golden; 
Harvest cheer at last is here 
And the joys long with-holden. 

The pasture lands are gay 

With daisies and marsh mallows; 

Snap-dragons bold in red and gold 
Lurk in the wayside willows. 

The winds blow cool and sweet 

Across the upland places; 
My lips let fall old names, that call 

Sadly to mind, old faces. 

And the far-off, mystic blue 

Of hazy skies has drawn me. 
With the color of eyes I used to prize, 

Dream eyes that in dreams shine on me. 



58 



The Trailing Arbutus 

HER cheek is like the chalice cup 
The sweet arbutus lifteth up, 
O'erfilled with rare perfumes. 
Her smile is like the incense rare 
That sweetens all the woodland air. 
Where the arbutus blooms. 

Brave herald of the Spring's return. 
Its buds like votive fires burn 

In every woodland bower; — 
So came she first into my heart 
And never shall she thence depart 

Through life's remotest hour. 



59 



On Harvest Hill 

THE old stone church on Harvest Hill 
It makes but little show ; 
With pious care 't was builded there 
Some five-score years ago. 
Its walls are sheathed in ivy vine 

And, by the gateway stair, 
A rose bush, in the Sabbath hush, 
Perfumes the morning air. 



We used to sit within its walls 

Each peaceful Sabbath Day; 
The pastor there would teach his fold 

Of the straight and narrow way. 
And, of his kindly words, though few 

In memory I find. 
The better part aye reached the heart 

And seldom sought the mind. 

The words that old man gave his flocks 

They hardly matter now; 
We liked to watch the white, white locks 

That fluttered on his brow, — 
To hear his voice and see the light 

With which his eyes would fill ; 
And feel the breeze that fluttered in 

So cool, on Harvest Hill. 



60 



ON HARVEST HILL 



A score of ancient fathers there 

Would sit with folded hands 
And dream, in sweet serenity, 

Of fair, celestial lands. 
The way was wearisome for them; 

They toiled and suffered ill. 
Today each sleeps where Heaven keeps 

His rest, on Harvest Hill. 

The skies that gleam on Harvest Hill 

Are always bright and blue ; 
And her fair breast is gaily dressed 

In blooms of every hue. 
The upland winds that love it so 

Perfumes of Heaven spill; — 
And God doth keep their rest who sleep 

Secure, on Harvest Hill. 



61 



An April Song 

THE thrush's joyous song at dawn thrills with 
the love it gloats upon. 
The pleasures that shall be anon, the 
bright days just beginning; 
And he who hears that melody knoweth this for 
sweet certainty 
That April is eternity. The nets of fairy spinning, 
Dew silvered on the tender grass, a long age brave 
the airs that pass — 
So much one hour of April has between its golden 
portals. 
Then may not true love ever tire, but doubting 
hearts once more aspire; 
For each shall have his heart's desire, when bright 
moths are immortals. 

Now every sparkling showier fills a thousand little, 

silvery rills 
That trickle down among the hills, and leap from 

rocky passes; 
Or, darting down the dimpled wold, through pasture 

lands their courses hold 
Washing with wavelets bright and cold the roots 

of greening grasses. 
'Tis sure a brighter, gladder green in all the world 

was never seen 



62 



AN APRIL SONG 



Than carpets all the meadows clean, where 

winding streams divide them; 
Where wander herds of comely kine, 'mongst open 

groves of beech and pine 
And sheep browse in the April shine, with 

snow-white lambs beside them. 

The hills are pink with apple bloom, whence every 
zephyr brings perfume; 
And tender blushes break the gloom of April dusk 
enfolding, 
As though the trees had caught the strain of 
lover's songs, along the lane, — 
Of piteous songs, too sweet and plain to brook a 
heart's with-holding. 
The orchard hills are white and fair, and you may 
gather blossoms there 
And hang them brightly in your hair, against 
your lover's coming ; 
For they've a pure, enthralling scent that makes a 
roving heart content, — 
A dream spell that is never spent, though the 
blossoms cease from blooming. 

At dusk from out the silence swells a far voice from 

the fragrant fells, 
A wistful, half sad note which tells of a heart that 

care encumbers. 
The thrush's joyous song at dawn, thrills with the 

love it gloats upon ; — 



63 



4f- -^ 

AN APRIL SONG 



A thousand Aprils that are gone, the meadowlark 
remembers. 
Far down across the level meads, beyond the river's 
fringe of reeds, 
Again 'tis heard, again recedes and dies into the 
meadows. 
Old friendships and old loves awake. Then gentlier, 
kindlier, for their sake, 
Old nam.es upon our lips we'll take and pledge 
them through the shadows. 



64 



COLLEGE VERSE 



Graduate Dreams 

Reunion Meeting of the Aletheorian Literary Society in Geneva 
College, Friday evening, November 17, 1905 

OF all glad mem'ries those of school 
Are the greenest of the green ; 
And oft' in dreams we wander back 

Through each familiar scene. 
If you in school possessed the power 

Things ghostly to behold 
You'd see some goings on, at times, 

To make your blood run cold; — 
For oft' a crowd of saintly wraiths 

Go strolling up and down 
These gloomy halls, the carnpus walks, 

The sidewalks of the town ; 
And, on the gridiron, there's a team, 

All spectre-like and gray. 
With furious flying Vs and old 

Forgotten forms of play. 
Sometimes, beside you in the class. 

We mark the lecturer's theme; 
And what is dreary work for you. 

For us is just a dream. 

When nights are warm and bright and still 
And the Harvest Moon is full 

In phantom boats with phantom oars 
Up the old stream we'll pull; 



67 



ADUATE DREAMS 



We'll hear once more across the waves 

Sweet music from afar, 
Whence some sad sophomore lifts his voice 

And strums his light guitar. 
And, when he's made the girl believe 

V/ith reasons wondrous wise 
That sitting by her in the stern 

Won't make the boat capsize. 
And a veiling mist of cloud floats o'er 

And dims the moon's bright gleam, — 
For him, 'twill be a luscious fact, — 

For us, just an old dream. 

You, bold and reckless spirits, 

Who acquire a base delight 
In holding social functions. 

In the Halls, at dead of night, — 
Who boast a taste for chicken 

And at dancing do excel. 
Attend this Voice from out the Past 

And mark its warning well. 
When waltzing, in the dim light, 

Up and down the old hall floor, 
In fancy, we'll be with you then, 

As in the days of yore ; 
But, when a step sounds on the stair 

And the girls all faint or scream. 
For you, 'twill be a sober fact, — 

For us, just an old dream. 



68 



GRADUATE DREAMS 



How oft' the mind goes harking back 

Through all those college days 
And ponders on the frowardness 

Of youth's unsteady ways. 
The things which then were counted hard, 

Now bear a different face, 
And pleasures which were pleasures then 

Today seem plain disgrace. 
Yes, all is changed. What joy today, 

With books in either arm. 
And lessons thoroughly conned, to heed 

The bell's first loud alarm. 
Six recitations to attend 

No hardships now we deem 
And joyfully we seek each arduous 

Classroom, — in our dream. 

Those days are gone, yes, long gone by 

And it must be now confessed 
When ancient customs are reviewed. 

Perhaps it's for the best. 
By embryonic legal lights 

And doctors over-run, 
We venture that the dear professors 

Never found it fun ; 
And what with theologians. 

In squads, right on the ground. 
You couldn't find a decent fowl 

For miles and miles around. 
But the reverend dyspeptic 



69 



G R A DUATE DREAMS 



Never takes distress, it seems, 
From leathery, phaatom chickens 
Fried in nothing else but dreams. 

Dear little children, heed the words 

Of older, wiser men. 
Revere your dear professors, as 

Was not the custom then. 
Eschew all frowardness of speech. 

All vice and vanity, 
And work from dawn to midnight hour 

That high your grades may be. 
You girls, avoid the little boys; 

They're all a wretched lot. 
You boys, who seem girl-ward inclined, 

Mark me, — you'd better not. 
Our hair is gray, or will be soon. 

A fact which much redeems. 
And of course we all have better sense. 

Awake than in our dreams. 



70 



Lost Opportunities 

Geneva Alumni Banquet, Friday Evening, February 16, 1906, 
at Hotel Henry, in Pittsburgh 



ON festive occasions like this we are prone 
To forget the stern issues of life ; 
For the mind seeks those halcyon haunts that 
were known 
In a day void of worry or strife. 
But, recalling the past, as we do here tonight. 

We should not lose the chance, it is clear. 
To gather some lessons that lie in plain sight' 
'Mongst the feelings that come to us here. 

Ah, could we but speak to the light heart of youth. 

To the youngsters in college today. 
How we'd strive to impress on their young hearts 
the truth 

That in youth is the time to make hay! 
Or could we but enter the old school again 

With the course all before us, how few 
Of the hours we would spend as we misspent them 
then 

When our powers of discretion were new ! 

When I think of the time that I wasted on Greek 
When I might have been down at the Gym., 

My voice grows so husky it pains me to speak 
And my two eyes with tears become dim. 



71 



^ 

OPPORTUNITIES 



For, with three hours more practice per diem, I know 
I'd have made the First* Basketball Team; 

Joe Thompson admits it and says it is so. — 
Opportunity passed like a dream. 

Sometimes when the Beaver was sheeted with ice, 

The voice of the Tempter spake low. 
Saying, — **Work out your Trig. 'T will be done in 
a trice. 

Then away to your skating you go." 
Ah, the entering wedge! For one lesson led on 

To another, till night came at last; 
And vain our remorse. — When we rose at the dawn 

It had rained and the skating was past ! 

What a poignant regretfulness now do we feel 

When we think of that ill favored term, 
When the specious attraction of ''grades" did appeal 

To a mind immature and unfirm ! 
Lost, lost for all time, are, — six basketball games. 

Four picnics, the faith of a friend, 
Seven "feeds" in the college, eight boatrides with 
dames , 

And long moonlight drives without end ! 

There were nights when we might have been down 
at the Dorm, 

That Garden of Beauty and Grace, 
Where a welcome awaited unfailing and warm 

In many a sweet smiling face; 



72 



4^ 

LOST OPPORTUNITIES 



But we weren't. Had we quelled that insidious craze 
For ''good marks," the chances are strong 

That, instead of this mere waste of dull lonesome 
days. 
Our lives would be one glad sweet song. 

How we love to call back every youth-hallowed hour 

That in some student frolic went by! 
Nor does Mem'ry with years lose a whit of its 
power; 

Not a dream of those days that shall die ! 
But who, my good friends, ever cares to recall 

One hour of that wearisome grind 
With Latin, or Logic or Greek, that we all 

Spent in merely "improving the mind." 

Let us bless the true instinct that prompted us then, 

As it often has prompted us since, 
When the fields by the highway seemed fair in 
our ken, 

To stop and climb over the fence; — 
Caring not though ambition pushed by to the goal, 

Or whatever he trusted to find. 
We spent a few glad hours improving our soul. 

Not banking too much on our mind. 



73 



I 



My 3riar 



LIKE my old briar pipe the best The poet consider- 
Of all the pipes from east to west, panion and a'^v^'- 
It's stronger and has stood the test tender regard. 



Of longer years. 
Its amber stem is nicked and scarred 
The briar of its brim is charred ; 
But every mark of usage hard 

The more endears. 



There was a time, in bygone days, 
When meerschaums, corncobs and 

long clays 
I kept to light my lonesome ways 

With fragrant fire; 
The meerschaums and the clays are 

broke ; 
The cob at last went up in smoke 
And, now, the only bowl I stoke 
It is my Briar. 



He calleth to mind 
the youthful wan- 
derings of his 
affection. 



On frosty winter evenings when 
The fire is chuckling in my den 
And the petty strife of mouse-like men 

Far distant seems. 
No other light care I to know 
Except my coal-fire's warming glow, — 



He findeth peace 
and solace, after 
the turmoil of the 
weary day, in that 
rare companion- 
ship. He becometh 
sentimental about 
his coal fire. 



74 



MY BRIAR 



No comfort save delights that flow 
From rare pipe dreams. 



I have a can of Craven, good 
For sober, philosophic mood, 
When wise conclusions are pursued 

And reason weighs. 
Then straight a sense of solid ease 
Enwraps my sensibilities, 
I hate all shams and sophistries 

And vain displays. 



He maketh note of 
an incomparable 
aid to sober reflec- 
tion. 



If sentimental mood is mine, 
Perchance with dreams of Auld Lang 

Syne, 
My hands of Latakkia twine 

An ample jar. 
For jocund hours no smoke excels 
Old Durham redolent with smells 
Of fair Virginia's fragrant fells 

Where blossoms are. 



He likeneth Latak- 
kia to the faded 
rose leaves of an 
olden summer. 



In youth there was a likely maid, 
Sometime great love for me displayed ; 
But, sorely often, was afraid 

Her heart's desire 
Did elsewhere lead. Then home apace 
I went and pulled a better face 
When, in the old familiar place, 

I found my Briar. 



He entereth upon a 
painful retrospec- 
tion; but rejoiceth 
that, while there 
was yet time, he 
forsook the pursuit 
of folly and return- 
ed to his pipe. 



75 



-^ 



MY BRIAR 



Girls' hearts are hot and cold by He maketh an 

illuminating 
turns f * comparison. 

My pipe with equal fervor burns ; 
It never weeps, it never spurns 

A proffered hand. 
It never feels that, maybe, Fate 
Intends for it some other mate, — 
Some other and more grand estate 

Than I command. 



Oh, give me then my friendly Briar He prefen-eth ws 

. - modest request. 

Beside a crackling, evening fire, He knocketh the 

When weariness and boding dire pipe. 

„ , , — Selah. 

Beset the soul ; — 
Forgot is Fortune's saddest stroke 
And every care that cumbers folk 
Evanishes in fragrant smoke 

From that briar bowl. 



76 



s 



The Tackling Dummy 

Flavored with Browning 



ETEBAN, Seteban — and Calibos 

Thinketh he hangeth from a horn of the Moon. 



So, Seteban, seemeth thy saw-dust 

To tingle with thoughts of a higher calling? 

It striketh me you should be more modest. 

If man is mortal, thou'rt still more raw dust 
And even more prone and persistent in falling. 

Lump, dolt! 

Have at ye, old Chree! 

(I tackled. Dirk tackled, we tackled, all three) 

Bang, went the bolt. 

We rolled — how we rolled — 

Old Seteban cold 

In the pit's much mire — 

Such mire, much mire. 

Much such Dutch mire. 

He grunted and flopped like a deflated tire! 

Up with old Seteban, 
Famous old foot -ball fan, 

Back on his hook. 
With a brown, brooding, saturnine, far-away look, 
(How could you, headless Seteban, so look?) 



77 



THE TACKLING DUMMY 



Twenty yards at the sprint 

And a long, low leap ; 

Marry, it seemeth to hint 

This life is but cheap. 

Are not horse-hair and Art 

To be had, at a price, in the sporting goods Mart; 

While eons creep? 

Ah, lovers' fondest, leave-taking, last embraces 

Are not such as these. 
By the soft star-light, in hindermost Ind 

Or Honolulu, or the New Hebrides. 
They are different, varying greatly, 

As everyone knows and sees. 

But Seteban hangeth 

Again on his Horn! 
The bee's on the Blossom 

The snail's on the Thorn. 
The cow's on the Sumach 

The train's on the Track! 
When I pull off my head-gear, 

Will Reason come back? 



78 



Get Low, My Son, 
Get Low! 

AT midnight, on his troubled couch, 
The foot-ball Captain lay 
And dreamed of dread encounters that 

Should mark the coming day. 
He tossed about, kicked off the quilt 

And charged a beefy * 'guard." 
He "straight-armed" pillows in his sleep, 

And tackled high and hard. 
He raised his voice, from time to time. 

In apprehensive tones ; — 
"Their 'backs' are heavy and they're fast — 
Too fast for us," he groans. 
"And how to stop their rushes I'll 

Be hammered if I know." 
A voice replied, from out the gloom, 

^^Get low, my son, get low!'' 

II 
Up rose the foot-ball Captain 

And sat straight up in bed. 
"Now who is that who hollered there?" 

In angry tones he said. 
And then each ruddy spike of hair 

Rose up and stood on end ; 



79 



GET LOW, MY SON, GET LOW 



And Pat clenched both his fists, prepared 

His honor to defend; 
For, while he blinked his eyes and looked, 

His perturbation grew. 
To see the ghostly form that sat 

Full in his troubled view. 
Its muddy moleskins shimmered 

With a fearful, phosphor glow. 
It croaked and gurgled, in its throat, — 

"Get low, my son, get low!" 



Ill 

He saw the ghost sit hunched upon 

The footboard of his bed. 
Its chin wagged almost to its knees ; 

Its cleats were on the spread. 
Its hair grew to its shoulders. 

In good old foot-ball style 
And the caverns in its fiendish face 

Smiled an unearthly smile. 
Now, when this apparition weird 

Had been sized up by Pat, 
He kicked out with his punting leg 

And roared, *'Wowf Cheese it! Scat!' 
But the spectre only scratched its chin 

And made no move to go. 
Its eye-holes glimmered as it said; — 

**Get low, my son, get low!'' 



80 



GET LOW, MY SON, GET LOW 

IV 

"I've played at foot-ball seven year,'* 

Red Pat began to groan, 
"And I never tackled any man 

Below his collar bone. 
I jump upon them from above 

And bear them to the ground ; 
And I do not want the likes of you 

To come a-snoopin' round 
And, sitting on my footboard there. 

To try to tell me how 
To paralyze a tackle-buck — 

That ought to hold you, now." 
The hant it only clicked its jaw 

And said, "You ought to know 
There's just one way to stop a buck; — 

Get low, my son, get low!" 



"Yes, that may be the proper dope 

For little dubs like you. 
That haven't got the weight, nor strength. 

To stand up and wade through; 
But if a fellow has the sand 

And the ballast in his feet, 
There's nothing to't. Those tackle plays 

Have always been my meat." 
The spirit gnashed its teeth until 

The sparks fell round about, 



81 



GET LOW, MY SON, GET LOW 

And shook its long hair till the weeds 

And what-not tumbled out. 
Says it; — "Red Pat why should you try 

To aggravate me so? 
No high dive ever stopped a play. — 

Get low, my son, get low! 

VI 

"And mark you well, my son,'* says it, 

In tones of bitter scorn ; 
"I've played some foot-ball prior to 

The day when you were born. 
I've met the famed REVOLVING WEDGE 

And perished underneath; 
I've faced the dreaded FLYING V 

Upon its native heath, 
With stunts whereof you never heard, 

Queer, outlawed, ancient plays. 
The gory, grim inventions 

Of prehistoric days ; — 
And I say once more, with emphasis, 

I speak it over slow, 
For I know whereof I'm holding forth, — 

Get low, my son, get low!" 

VII 

At that Red Pat kicked out once more 

And raging sore did shout; — 
"If that is all you've got to say 

Why, get the Samhill out. 



82 



GET LOW, MY SON, GET LOW 



Hence and a vaunt, thou spectral shade! 

Back to Abaddon's gloom. 
I'll stand no Stygian sports like you 

A-hanging' round this room. 
No scrubs from no Tartarean teams 

Can ever make good here; 
So, back to Old Averne for yours, 

Before you get in queer. 
Mayhap you'll find some has-beens there, 

Some crippled, halt and slow, 
To list that everlasting rant, — 

Get low, my son, get low!" 

VIII 

With that the ghost jumped up and danced 

Upon Red Pat, his chest, 
Whose thoughts were naturally such 

As scarce could be expressed. 
He struck out with his fists and feet 

And manfully did roar; 
But the fiend it only gnashed its teeth 

With rage, and danced the more. 
At last Pat gave a mighty roll 

And wallowed down in bed 
And lay for maybe half an hour. 

Before he showed his head. 
'*I wonder what I've eat," said Pat, 

"That could upset me so." 
A far-off, muffled moan replied, — 

*'Get low, my son, get low!" 



83 



The Hon Fire 



NOW shout, Geneva's stalwart sons, and give the 
yell once more 
And let the old bell in the tower ring out the 
glorious score. 
Lift up in song, O daughters all, your voices sweet 

and clear; 
The praise of vic'try on your lips is passing good to 
hear. 

Heap up with wood, ye little preps, heap up our 

triumph fire 
Until the red light, leaping high, doth gild the very 

spire ; 
Bring on the benches from the park, the bill-boards 

from the way, 
With barrels, boxes, brush and logs; let no man say 

you nay; 
For on this day our own did meet once more the 

ancient foe; 
And in the fight, for all his might, we laid his colors 

low. 

This morn the clouds were snowy white when day 

did first unfold 
And crowned were all the Orient hills with gleaming 

sunny gold, 



84 



THE -BON FIRE 



So, when we read the omens bright at breaking of 

the dawn, 
We knew that vict'ry soon would perch our banners 

fair upon. 
With courage, then, and confidence we formed upon 

the field, 
Unmindful of the hostile host, though loud their 

shouting pealed, 
While honest burghers rose, betimes, their betting to 

begin ; 
'Twas, "two to one they cannot score; and five to 

one we win." 
Alas for those unhappy ones; they have themselves 

to blame. 
With vain regrets they paid their debts when we had 

won the game. 

We'll therefore whoop it up tonight in the 

old time-honored style, 
Till the ancient red man from his grave doth listen 

with a smile. 
The simple folk of Fetterman will see the heavens 

gleam, 
And tremble as our "Gen-e-vah!" comes thrilling 

o'er the stream; 
While, down the valley echoing, the clanging of the 

bell 
To every honest citizen our victory will tell. 
The huntsman on yon distant hill, the boatman far 

below, 



85 



THE BON FIRE 



The traveler on the winding road, now see and hear 

and know 
That on this day we laid them low ; and that is why, 

tonight, 
A brimming cup of joy we sup and hearts and heels 

are light. 

At length, when night is far advanced, the clamor 

will abate 
As up the old path Doctor comes to help us celebrate. 
He'll, smiling, say: '*Now all go home; it must be 

twelve o'clock" 
Which is the sign to gather round and cry, "A speech 

from Doc!" 
Then from the old stone steps we'll hear our prowess 

praised anew. 
With sage advice, **Just study as you've played and 

you'll get through." 
And last, we'll gather dreamily around the embers' 

glow 
And sing a parting song or two or three before we go. 
While the old bell hangs silent in the steeple 

overhead 
And the Freshmen yawn, against the dav/n, and the 

embers glimmer red. 



86 



TiRRARY OF CONGRESS 

018 6028922(1^ 



